


Love in the Wasteland

by BlackRapture



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Post - Deathly Hallows, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2011-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-28 14:27:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackRapture/pseuds/BlackRapture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He lost his brother and his best friend. How can life ever be anything but empty ever again? /post-DH/George/Angelina/</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After the Torchlight Red

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I started some time ago that has not been updated recently. I hope to finish it eventually, but I make no promises.

Business had increased in record time after the final fall of Voldemort. Enormous numbers of witches and wizards crowded into Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes almost every day, as if trying to make up for the general lack of happiness during You-Know-Who’s reign. George had managed to keep everything running smoothly with the help of his close friend Lee Jordan and his brother Ron. There would be no problem carrying out his and Fred’s plan to buy Zonko’s Joke Shop later that year if the shop’s profits held.

George sat at the top of the stairs, bracing himself for the beginning of another day smiling and making jokes. It had been easy to make light of every horror imaginable when he’d done it with Fred. They had finished each other’s sentences and laughed off every unpleasant situation. But while everyone else in the Wizarding world was becoming more carefree, George felt that his own reality was becoming hazier with each passing day.

As he pressed his fingers to his temples, George’s palms felt the difference between the left and right sides of his head. Grazing over the space where his right ear had been cursed off, he could not help but note that he felt riddled with more than one hole. Although the Weasleys were very close, not to mention their extended family of non-relations, Fred and George had always been something of an island just off the coast of the continent. And now that the island had been hit by a major explosion, George felt as though he were desperately clinging to a piece of driftwood in the middle of an ocean that threatened to swallow him.

“Mr. Weasley?”

George looked up to see Verity standing at the foot of the stairwell.

“Yeah?” he replied, offering her a weak smile.

“Did you want me to open?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Okay,” she said, lingering for a moment before turning and leaving.

/

George was going over the last week’s finances when Ron came in.

“It’s mad out there! I guess it’s good, but I hope it doesn’t go on like this forever,” Ron commented.

“Yeah,” George agreed, “it’ll die down once everyone isn’t so starved for laughs.”

“Hopefully,” Ron said, walking past him to the stockroom, emerging a few minutes later with a box of Headless Hats.

“Out of them already?” George asked. Ron was about to reply when Verity hurried in and snatched the box from his hands.

“There’s some German wizard about to go off his trolley,” she explained before practically running out again. It took Ron a moment to retract the outstretched hands that his box had been snatched from. He shook his head and turned back to George.

“You alright?” he asked. “You’ve been back here all day.”

“Don’t really feel like amusing the masses right now,” George responded, turning a page.

“That’s happening a lot lately, huh?”

“Unlike that lot, I don’t have that many things to be thankful for.”

“Pretty shit way of looking at it.”

“I think I’m entitled to look at it that way for at least another few months.”

“No one’s telling you that you aren’t. There’s a lot that we didn’t lose, you know,” Ron reminded him, placing a hand on George’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” George nodded, “I do know. I’ve just never had to do anything without him.”

“We all miss him. But you can’t let this change who you are.”

“I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“Don’t say that. You two were the only ones who ever managed to put a smile on everyone’s face no matter how fucked it got. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“Turn into Percy?” George suggested.

“We can’t let that happen, George,” Ron said seriously. George rolled his eyes as Ron smiled.

“All right, all right,” he said. “Motivational speech over. Get back to work.”

“Right away, Mr. Weasley,” Ron replied sarcastically, heading back out onto the main floor.

Despite the truth of Ron’s words, George didn’t feel any less numb. Everyone expected him to eventually return to form, making witty remarks and pulling pranks. At the moment, he didn’t think he would ever feel like doing any of those things again. How could he, when he felt like half of him was lost? Ron didn’t understand. None of them understood.

To them, Fred had just been a brother, a son, a friend. And while they mourned him, they could not possibly feel the loss as George did. A part of himself had been amputated – not just his personality, but his very soul. The loss of an ear was nothing to the feeling that he had been cloven in two; everything that he did felt strange because Fred was not there. The flat above the shop felt too empty, the shop itself felt less cheerful. Visits to the Burrow now felt incomplete and conversations were strained, Fred’s death always seeming to loom over them although it was rarely brought up.

Would this feeling lessen over time? It would never disappear completely, he knew that. But everyone always said that things like this got better, or at least less painful, over time. It had only been about a month since Fred’s death. Would he feel any different in another month? Six? A year? The possibility wasn’t looking particularly likely at the moment.

It wasn’t as if he wanted to keep on like this. But Fred was dead. Nothing would ever change that. So the question was, could he lead any kind of normal life without him? Wasn’t he already doing that? He was maintaining a business. He saw friends and family on a regular basis. Wasn’t this normal life? If he just kept doing it, would he eventually stop feeling like he had a gaping chest wound? If he just kept living and doing everyday things, kept smiling when he didn’t feel like it and making jokes when he didn’t want to laugh, would it just stop eventually? Or at least decrease to the point where he didn’t feel like he was in a waking dream?

He had been staring down at the ledger, the writing becoming blurred and illegible the longer he focused on it. As he blinked himself back into the world, the words and numbers became sharp again. He had snapped his quill in two at some point, staining his palm and fingertips with black ink.

“You okay, mate?”

George turned to see Lee leaning against the doorframe.

“Sod off,” George responded, having had about enough of the concerned looks and lectures about seeing the bright side of it all.

“No, then?”

“I don’t want to talk about my being all right or not anymore today.”

“Fair enough. But I’m here. We all are. If you need something.”

“I need my best friend to not be dead. Can you help with that?”

“I can listen if you need someone to talk to.”

“Well, I don’t. So get stuffed,” George suggested, wiping the ink off his hand with a handkerchief. When Lee didn’t respond, George looked up. He had gone and George couldn’t quite bring himself to feel sorry for telling him to bugger off. Of course he wasn’t fine. Who in their right mind would be in his situation?

/

After the shop had been closed and everyone had left, George slowly made his way upstairs. As he shut the door to the flat behind him, he leaned against it and looked around.

There were still two chairs at the table, although the second was not used anymore. Fred’s favorite mug, which had Shakespearean insults all over it, still hung on a hook above the sink. The Gryffindor banner that they had hung together still hung over the back of the couch. The door to Fred’s room was slightly open, a one-inch gap between the door and the frame. He hadn’t gone in since Fred had died.

He knew that one of these days he would have to box everything up and do something with it. Put it in a closet, perhaps, or give it to Mum. George walked over and pushed the door open.

As he sat down on the bed, he thought about how much it looked like the occupant might walk in at any moment. The wardrobe was ajar, displaying several sets of robes and his dragon-skin coat. A pair of trainers were strewn on the floor at the foot of the bed. George picked up the violently blue book sitting on the nightstand, running his fingers over the silvery title, _Eye-Popping Enchantments for Entertaining_. He opened to the place where Fred’s bookmark had been, a section on how to turn yourself different colours.

Fred had been using a picture to keep his place. A few months after they had left Hogwarts, he and Fred had received a large envelope from Colin Creevey, full of photos he had somehow managed to take over the last few years. Colin was dead now, poor bugger.

George looked at the picture of Fred and Angelina Johnson at the Yule Ball. She was laughing at something he’d said. He was giving her a half-smile, obviously pleased with himself.

He hadn’t seen Angelina since Fred’s funeral. No one else had either, as far as he knew. Before Fred and George had left school, they had been close with the other members of the Quidditch team. He, Fred, and Lee had often accompanied Angelina and the other Gryffindor Chasers, Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet, to Hogsmeade. They would sit in the Three Broomsticks, drinking butterbeer and regaling everyone with tales of their latest escape from Filch.

They had seen less of them in the last few years. Before the war started, they would come round the shop sometimes, or meet them for a drink at the Leaky Cauldron. But communication had been limited in the year before Fred’s death. He remembered talking to Fred about how nice it would be when it was all over, how there would be time for things like dates and romance.

Angelina was well-liked by everyone, George and Lee included, but Fred was always the one who caught her attention. He knew what a crush Fred had harbored for her, knew that it was one of the few things he regretted about leaving Hogwarts. They didn’t see much of her, but he knew that Fred wrote to her. He’d spent a lot of time with her just before the battle at Hogwarts. There had been a lot of that in those final days, as if everyone knew it might be their last chance before they were dead.

Fred would never get the chance to see where things might have gone with Angelina. Never find out if things would get serious. Never find out if he would get married. Never find out if he would have any kids of his own, another set of twins with flaming red hair. And what about George? He imagined having kids of his own some day. What would he tell them about the uncle they would never be able to meet? What would he tell them about their father’s best friend?

George replaced the picture and set the book back on the table. As he looked around, he noticed the corner of a shoebox sticking out from underneath the bed. He slid it out and lifted it into his lap. Pulling the lid off, he saw that it was filled with more pictures, some of them from the envelope they had received from Colin.

One of them showed Harry getting George right in the face with a snowball. A clipping from the Daily Prophet of the Weasley family in Egypt. A young Fred and George in their mother’s kitchen, covered from head to foot in baking flour. The twins flying high in the Great Hall, a chain dangling from one of their broomsticks. The Gryffindor Quidditch team the year Fred and George had become Beaters. Fred plucking a bouquet of roses from his wand and handing them to a pretty blonde girl at Bill and Fleur’s wedding.

As he replaced the box’s lid and set it down on the floor, George tried to swallow the huge lump in his throat. He rubbed the back of his neck, willing the water forming in his eyes to recede.

George unclasped his robes and tossed them onto the floor. He pulled off his shoes and his shirt, leaving it all in a pile next to the bed. Pulling back the covers, he slid into Fred’s bed and lay awake for a long time before falling asleep.


	2. After the Frosty Silence

George spent the next morning packing Fred’s belongings into boxes. He stacked them in Fred’s closet, keeping only the shoebox of photographs and the book on the nightstand for himself. He drank his coffee from Fred’s mug, staring at the empty chair on the other side of the table until it became little more than a blurred shape.

Wednesdays meant dinner at the Burrow. His family and friends were the only crowd he could abide lately. In the noise and excitement, George could almost forget that Fred was gone. Ironically, his presence made it harder for everyone else to forget. He had the same face, after all. Sometimes he would catch Mum or Dad looking at him, lost in the memory of a time when they had two sons with that face. It wasn’t much of a joke when his mother accidentally called him Fred anymore.

Even though the Burrow was still full of life, there were moments when everything they had lost seemed to rise up and crash over them. There was barely any topic that someone wouldn’t connect with a dead body – Dumbledore, Sirius, Lupin, Tonks, Professor Snape, Mad-Eye Moody. Whenever an owl arrived with post, Harry’s face became strangely blank. No one could look at Teddy’s various hair colours and not think about the fact that he would never know his parents.

Despite how often everyone tried to improve his spirits, George couldn’t help but notice that he wasn’t any worse off than anyone else. Though they might keep up appearances a bit better, they all had the same sadness in their eyes when they didn’t think anyone was looking.

Everyone was going through the motions of living, but they were all in some sort of bizarre holding pattern. Harry hadn’t made any effort to rekindle his relationship with Ginny, nor had Ron made any further progress with Hermione. No one seemed to know quite what to do, almost as if trying to do anything to improve their own happiness would be an insult to all the people who had suffered directly or indirectly at You-Know-Who’s hands.

The whole thing was rubbish, as far as George was concerned. If there was anything that would have given him the least bit of relief from the way he felt, he would seize it and hold on with all he had. Wasn’t everyone aware, now more than ever, that life was short? Do what you bloody liked, because tomorrow you might be dead. George was confident that if Fred had known how little time he had left, he would have done a lot of things different.

Not that he and Fred hadn’t always appreciated their family, but you can always appreciate people more. He’d probably have wanted to tell Harry how much investing in their business had meant to them. How much they’d missed Percy when he was off being a pillock. How proud they were of Ron for making the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and of Ginny for taking after them. How much he’d cared for Angelina. There were too many things that he would never get to say. Never get to do. He’d never drink coffee out of this mug or sit in that chair again.

George got up and walked over to the sink. He stared at the mug in his hand, a reminder of Fred and the fact that he was dead. He threw it into the sink, watching as it shattered into pieces.

Feeling a bit better, he pulled out his wand and whispered, “Reparo.” He watched the mug reassemble itself before turning and heading down to the store.

/

There were far too many people crowded around the table in the Weasley’s back garden.

“George, could I have those potatoes?” Hermione asked, gesturing to the serving dish next to him. He passed them to her before turning back to his roast beef.

“So how’s business?” inquired Bill, who was sitting on George’s right.

“Brilliant,” Ron answered from across the table. “At this rate he’ll be able to retire in five years.”

“That right?” said Bill, looking at George.

“Yeah, it’s mad,” George agreed.

“I haven’t been in for a while,” Ginny commented. “Harry and I thought we might pop in tomorrow.”

“Good,” George replied, nodding.

“I might come along with you two,” Mrs. Weasley added from down the table. “I need to get some things from Slug & Jiggers.”

“Yeah, good,” repeated George, crunching on a forkful of green beans. His mother looked at him for a long moment before sighing and taking a sip of her pumpkin juice.

“Harry, dear, how’s the search going?” Mrs. Weasley asked, turning to him.

“All right,” he answered. “Nothing’s really caught my eye yet. Going to check out a few more places when Ginny and I are in London tomorrow.”

“We’ll be sad to see you go, Harry. But I expect it’ll be nice to have a place of your own,” she said kindly.

“Yeah,” Harry replied, smiling at her. “Don’t think you’re getting rid of me, though. I’ll be here all the time.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Mrs. Weasley beamed. “Now, who’s for dessert?”

/

His mother was directing the washing of the dishes with her wand when George wandered into the kitchen later that evening.

“Mum?”

“Oh, George,” she said, turning around and smiling at him.

“Dinner was great,” he told her. She patted him on the arm.

“I do worry about you,” she confessed suddenly. “All alone in that flat.”

“I’ve packed Fred’s things this morning,” George informed her. “I didn’t know if you wanted them or not.” Her whole body seemed to sink at the mention of Fred’s name.

“I think you should keep them, dear,” she decided. “He would’ve wanted that.”

“I love you, Mum,” he said, stepping forwards and hugging her tightly. She wrapped her hands around his back, her face pressing into his chest.

“George,” she whispered, her frame beginning to shake with sobs.

“I know, Mum,” George answered, rubbing her back.

“You will be all right, won’t you?” she asked, looking up at him with watery eyes.

“Yeah, Mum. I’ll be alright,” he promised.

“Good,” she said, backing away from him and moving to turn back to the sink. George looked at her back for several minute before rejoining the others in the sitting room.

/

It drizzled miserably the following day. No one was in a particularly good mood. Harry and Ginny had stopped by and bought a few things. They chatted for a bit with George and Lee, but mostly with Ron, who they invited to accompany them to the Leaky Cauldron for lunch.

Lee hadn’t said much to George since he’d told him off a couple of days ago. He gave greetings and farewells, but that was about it. George didn’t feel particularly inclined to do anything about this, considering it was preventing Lee from asking about his emotional state.

George was about to shut the door behind everyone for the night when a brown owl swooped into the shop, an envelope in his beak.

“Oy!” he said, startled. The owl perched on a nearby shelf of Skiving Snackboxes and stared at him expectantly. George opened the front door fully and pointed upwards. “Upstairs,” he explained. The owl took flight out of the doorway again.

Once in his flat, George went over to the window to let the owl in. After setting a dish of water in front of the animal, he took the letter from its beak. There wasn’t anything on the outside of the envelope, so he broke the seal and pulled out the single piece of parchment within.

 _George,_

 _I was hoping that we could see each other sometime soon. Are you free tomorrow? I thought we could have dinner. Let me know. It’s important._

 _Angelina_

 

He turned the letter over, but that was all that was written. It was the last thing he’d been expecting, really. George didn’t blame Angelina for not making any contact since the funeral. Seeing his face, Fred’s face, couldn’t seem very appealing. He’d seen the way she’d looked at him on the other side of Fred’s coffin. He may have the same face, but she knew that he wasn’t the same. It was probably like looking at some kind of grotesque imposter. No one could fault her for not wanting to have any part of it. So why had she sent him this out of the blue?

She said it was important. He couldn’t really imagine her saying that unless it was actually the case, under the current circumstances. But what was important? George hoped to Merlin that she hadn’t decided that she had some need to talk about Fred, to express her feelings about his death. He had enough of his own, thanks very much. What did they have to say to each other that wasn’t about Fred? Should he reassure her that Fred had cared for her, or would that only make it worse? He was gone and there was nothing that could come of any feelings he had for her, so it might be more painful for her to know than now.

But it was important. So what else could he do? George tore off the bottom of the letter, as most of it was blank, and scribbled an affirmative response. After finding a piece of cord, he rolled the note into a scroll and tied it to the owl’s leg.

/

When George arrived at the Three Broomsticks the following evening, he spotted Angelina sitting in a corner booth towards the back of the pub. She looked up and gave him a small smile as he approached, rubbing her thumb nervously along the side of her glass.

“Hello, Angelina,” George said, sitting across from her.

“It’s good to see you, George,” she replied, although her face suggested that seeing his was one of the last things she would describe as such. Angelina opened her mouth to say something else, but stopped when Madam Rosmerta arrived.

“Mr. Weasley!” Rosmerta exclaimed. “What a pleasant surprise! What can I get for you?”

“Just a butterbeer, please. Hot,” George told her. Angelina waited until he had received his mug before she spoke.

“How have you been?”

“Rubbish, to be honest. But that’s to be expected.”

“Yes… yes, I suppose it is,” she agreed.

“Look, Angelina,” George said, leaning towards her. “What’s this about? Not that it isn’t nice to see you, but I know you don’t want to see me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, flushing slightly. “I don’t mean to give that impression. It’s just strange.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s not just strange for you.”

“It must be hard to have everyone looking at you like that.”

“It is.”

“I know that he’s the last person you want to talk about right now, but that’s the reason I asked you to meet me,” Angelina admitted. George sighed, his worst fears confirmed.

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” George shrugged.

“Nothing. I have to tell you something. There’s not really anyone else. You’re it.”

“I’m what? The closest thing to him? I’m not him.”

“Of course,” Angelina agreed. “But you’re still the only one who might understand.”

“Understand what? What is this?”

“You know that we spent a lot of time together before the final battle.”

“Yeah, okay. Good. I’m glad that he got to do that. I’m sorry you didn’t get to spend more time together.”

“George,” Angelina said brokenly, “I’m going to have a baby.”

“His baby?” George asked, although he wasn’t really sure why. Obviously.

“Yes.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck,” she agreed.

“And you’re going to have it?” he confirmed.

“How can I not?” Angelina replied heatedly.

“But what are you going to do?” George questioned, “Can you even handle this?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I haven’t told anyone.”

“Why did you tell me?”

“George… this is the last piece of Fred. The man we loved.”

“Okay,” he replied, nodding. “So what do we do now?”

“We don’t have to do anything,” she told him. “I thought you deserved to be a part of this child’s life if you wanted to. But you don’t have to.”

“I… do. This is just a bloody lot to absorb.”

“I know. So just think on it. Whatever you want, I’ll understand. I’m going to do this regardless. I’ve got my parents and I’ve got friends who I won’t be able to hide this from forever. I won’t be alone. So don’t worry if you can’t deal with this. But if you want to, you can be a big part of this baby’s life.” Angelina reached across the table and put her hand on top of George’s. She smiled sadly before tossing a few coins on the table and leaving.


	3. Agony in Stony Places

A baby. Fred’s baby. A living piece of him that wasn’t just a memory or a photograph. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. Something wonderful, something more than George ever could have hoped for. But poor Angelina, who lost the man she loved only to get stuck with a permanent reminder of what should have been.

She would have a rough time of it, even with the support of friends and family. Wizarding morals weren’t medieval, but unwed mothers still weren’t the norm. But how could anyone not think that this was a miracle? A bandage to help patch the wound that Fred’s death had left behind. Angelina wouldn’t be alone to raise a child that would mean so much to George and his entire family. He wasn’t his brother, but he would do his best to give her whatever she needed.

 _Angelina,_

 _I want to help. Tell me what you need._

 _George_

/

Angelina appeared in Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes on Saturday afternoon.

“I really wish I had appreciated Apparating more,” she told him as she brushed Floo powder off her blouse.

“Where did you come from?” George asked.

“My flat. Hogsmeade,” Angelina answered.

“Bumpy ride?” he surmised.

“Always. I’ve been looking for a place closer to London, but I haven’t had much luck.”

“No luck with the locations or with the rent?”

“Either, I suppose.”

“How about a cup of tea?”

“Brilliant.”

/

Leaving Lee and Ron to mind the shop, George led Angelina upstairs and put the kettle on.

“You know,” George said, sitting down at the table across from her, “There’s an empty room here.”

“Wouldn’t that be a bit awkward?” Angelina responded, raising an eyebrow.

“For who?” he wondered aloud.

“Dunno… everyone?” she laughed.

“Perhaps. But it’s conveniently located and the rent is outrageously affordable.”

“How affordable?”

“A sickle a month.”

“That’s certainly an unbelievable improvement over anything else,” Angelina confessed with a smile.

“I thought it might be,” George replied, getting up to prepare two mugs of steaming tea. As he returned to the table and handed her a bright yellow mug with The Quibbler emblazoned on it, she spoke again.

“My lease isn’t up for another two months.”

“Well, you can wait until it’s up or move in now for all I care.”

“I think I’ll wait. More time to think of a way to explain it.”

“Fair enough,” he said, taking a thoughtful sip. “So what did you want to talk to me about anyways?”

“What gave you the impression I wanted to talk to you about something in particular?”

“Well you showed up, didn’t you?”

“Maybe I just wanted some company,” Angelina offered. “You and I are the only ones privy to this rather large secret.”

“Haven’t you told your parents? Or a friend or something?”

“Don’t quite know how to broach the subject, to be quite honest.”

“Probably best to do it quick. The truth will out and all that.”

“Mmm.”

“You’ll feel better,” George assured her.

“Will you come with me?”

“Absolutely not.”

/

They met Thaddeus and Leonora Johnson outside a small French bistro called Bedford & Strand, a short walk from Charing Cross Road.

Thaddeus Johnson was a handsome man – tall, dark-skinned, grey at the temples. He wore dark tailored slacks, a forest green button-down, and an expression of apprehension. His wife was a slender woman with mocha skin and dark brown hair which was pulled into a loose bun. Her pale yellow sundress was splashed with light pink flowers the size of cantaloupes.

“Hello, darling,” Leonora greeted, embracing Angelina around the shoulders. “It is so nice to meet you, George,” she said as she pulled away from her daughter and moved towards him.

“Likewise,” George replied, returning her less-familiar hug. “Mr. Johnson,” he said, extending his hand towards the older man. Thaddeus returned the greeting firmly.

“Shall we?” Thaddeus asked, gesturing to the entryway.

“What’s this all about, Angel?” Leonora wondered aloud once they were all seated, “You’ve been so mysterious.”

“Well, Mum, Dad, I’ve got some news. Great news,” Angelina told them. They both looked at her curiously, waiting. George closed his eyes, bracing himself.

“Are we ready to order?” asked their petite blonde waitress with a smile. Everyone ordered quickly and she dashed off again, all eyes focusing back on Angelina.

“I’m going to have a baby,” Angelina announced quietly, reaching for her water glass.

“I see,” her father said slowly, “And Mr. Weasley is the father of this child.”

“Of course!” his daughter exclaimed, “I mean, no.”

“You mean you aren’t sure?” Leonora whispered in amazement.

“What? No!” Angelina responded, aghast.

“Perhaps you’d better explain this a little better, Angelina,” Thaddeus suggested, eyeing George suspiciously.

“George and I are not romantically involved,” she clarified, “He is just a friend. The baby is Fred’s. His brother.”

“We know who Fred is, darling,” Leonora reminded her.

“I thought that George should know first. He was closer to Fred than anyone,” Angelina continued, “And he is going to help me.”

“Help you how exactly?” Thaddeus asked.

“I’m going to move in with him. He has a flat in Diagon Alley,” she said.

“And you believe this is best for you?” Leonora inquired.

“Yes. For myself and for the baby,” Angelina declared.

“I have an empty room and I want to help her with this. Having her close is the easiest way for me to give her whatever she needs,” George told them, “I know it’s a bit of a strange situation, but Angelina and the baby will be loved and taken care of. My entire family will be very supportive, I know, and Angelina hopes that you will be a part of that.”

“This is the last thing we expected, Angel,” her mother confessed, “I am so sorry that you have been put in this position.”

“Well, I’m not,” Angelina told her, “Under the circumstances, I think it’s amazing. A last piece of the man that I was very much in love with. This baby is a gift. Not just to me, but to George and to his family.”

“Of course we support whatever you have decided, Angelina” Thaddeus assured her, “This is just a shock. But you have all of our love and our confidence. We have raised you to be a capable young woman and we know that you can handle this.”

“Yes,” she replied, “I can.”

/

The rest of the weekend passed uneventfully, a great weight having lifted after revealing the news to Angelina’s parents.

On Monday, George visited Angelina at her flat. After a quick tour and a cup of tea, they made their way to The Three Broomsticks to meet Angelina’s older sister.

“And why didn’t I ever even know you had a sister?” George asked.

“Dunno,” Angelina answered, “Unobservant?”

“Perhaps.”

“She’s five years older than us and she doesn’t play Quidditch. So I don’t suppose you had much occasion to notice her.”

“Fair enough,” he replied, holding open the door for her. The Three Broomsticks was buzzing with life. George acknowledged a few familiar faces before following Angelina towards the back of the pub. She embraced a beautiful woman in a cream-colored pantsuit, with dark skin and short, straight black hair.

“George,” Angelina said as she pulled away, “This is Carlotta.”

“Carly, please,” the older woman told him as she shook his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” George replied.

“You as well,” Carly replied as they all sat down.

“How’s business?” Angelina asked her after they’d ordered their drinks.

“Rubbish,” she replied, “Always is when there’s a World Cup coming up.”

“D’you work for the Ministry, then?” George inquired.

“International Magical Cooperation. Law Office,” Carly answered. “But enough about that. How about the bun in your oven?”

“Should’ve known Mum couldn’t keep her mouth shut.”

“You really should’ve.”

“Well, I guess there wasn’t much reason for this, then.”

“Don’t suppose seeing your only sister counts as a good enough reason?”

“Just joking, sis. Of course it is. Thought I was going to get to surprise you, though.”

“Sorry Mum ruined it for you. But congrats, Ang. I’m really happy for you.”

“Because maybe this will get Mum off your back about reproducing?” Angelina said with a smile.

“Exactly,” Carly responded, clinking her wine glass with Angelina’s pumpkin juice.

They spent the rest of the afternoon pleasantly, chatting and shopping. When the three of them parted ways, George felt cheerful for the first time in several weeks. Angelina and her sister were both intelligent and entertaining – he had thoroughly enjoyed their company.

/

George stayed at the shop from opening until close the following day and had been planning to do much the same on Wednesday, apart from having dinner at the Burrow. However, the owl that he received from Angelina early that morning had him Apparating to Hogsmeade with a thermos of chicken soup and a handful of books.

The door was opened almost immediately after he had knocked, revealing a pale and exhausted Angelina.

“Here to save the day,” George grinned, shaking his soup at her. She smiled weakly as she shut the door behind him.

“I’m not sure it’s salvageable,” Angelina said quietly. George frowned as he watched her collapse onto her large burgundy sofa.

“What do you need?” he asked her.

“I don’t know,” she moaned.

“Right. Back soon,” George promised, hurrying off to the kitchen. After setting the books and soup down on the counter, George fished a bag of fresh ginger root out of his pocket.

After peeling and slicing it, he dropped the pieces into a pot of boiling water. Leaving it to simmer, he wandered back into the sitting room. Angelina was still lying on the couch, now with a damp cloth over her forehead and eyes.

“Pregnancy is rubbish,” she decided aloud.

“Sorry, love.”

“What books did you bring?”

“Mostly romantic shite,” George replied. “For you, of course.”

“Of course,” she agreed, smiling from underneath the cloth. “What, then?”

“ _Pride and Prejudice_ , _Wuthering Heights_ , _The Hobbit_ , and _Bewitching Balthazar Burgess_.”

“Didn’t know you liked Muggle fiction.”

“You don’t have to know magic to write well.”

“Too right. _Pride and Prejudice_ it is, then.”

“Right you are,” George replied, heading back to the kitchen. He strained his tea into a mug, added lemon and honey, and returned to Angelina, book in hand.

“What’s that?” she asked, eyeing the steaming cup suspiciously.

“Just trust me,” he beamed, handing her the mug. She stared at him for a moment with a faraway look in her eyes. George saw tears begin to gather around her eyelids before she blinked, turning from him and taking a sip.

“It’s good,” she said quietly.

“Ginger tea,” he replied, “Mum used to make it for Tonks.” Angelina nodded, taking another drink. George realized that bringing up more dead loved ones probably wasn’t the best way to go, but as usual it was hard to do everyday things without thinking of everyone they had lost. They were both silent for several minutes, Angelina staring into her mug while George stared at a frayed thread on the back of the couch.

For the first time, George wondered if Angelina resented the baby that she was carrying. Did she really see it as a last remnant of Fred that she was getting to keep? Or was it just a nagging reminder that she would never be able to let him go, a part of him would always be a part of her. Forever. She would never be able to escape the memory. None of them would.

“Book, yeah?” Angelina said suddenly, peering up at him from under her wet cloth.

“Yeah,” George said with too much enthusiasm .”Absolutely.”

As they settled down on the couch, George knew that neither of them would be paying much attention. Angelina continued to slowly drink her tea, her unfocused eyes staring without seeing . George could almost feel the sadness radiating from her and wondered if she could feel the same from him. Why had he thought that this was going to be so great? So easy? Up until now, they could all lie to themselves and to each other if they wanted to. Pretend that Fred had never existed, or that he’d just nicked off to the shops. But this baby… his son, or his daughter, was a living, breathing, blazing banner that would never let them forget, even for a moment, that Fred Weasley was dead.

George cleared his throat and glanced at Angelina. She had settled back into the cushions with her mug, her eyes covered by the cloth again.

He began to read.


End file.
